


a liability

by werealldreaming



Series: you can't protect by killing [1]
Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: AU-Kaladin is a surgeon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Gen, Kinda, Minor Character Death, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werealldreaming/pseuds/werealldreaming
Summary: He's saving a man's life when the message comes.Then, he feels as if he's lost his life.





	a liability

**Author's Note:**

> This was the result of a sudden thought and a lot of discussion on the CosCrew discord. I'm not sorry.

He’s trying to save a man’s leg when the news comes. The soldier had been cut deep in the thigh, nicking an artery. The femoral artery, judging by the blood volume. Kaladin’s hands are covered in blood when the boy runs up to him.

“...are you Kaladin?” the messenger asks timidly.

“Not now,” Kaladin snaps. The boy flinches, but Kaladin doesn’t notice. He’s too busy stitching up the soldier’s leg, working as fast as he can _(and not remembering Roshone, no, that’s not important right now, focus)_. The man nearly bleeds out— Kaladin ends up having to cauterize the wound, which he's not happy about. But the scar is better than having the man die.

Finally, Kaladin steps back, utterly drained.

He turns to the messenger boy. “What do they need me for?”

“Um… well…” the boy shifts from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. He offers a slip of paper. “This is you, right? Marked as next-of-kin?” Kaladin recognizes the paper— everyone in the army has one, listing their name, hometown, and next of kin. It’s not a foolproof system; sometimes the papers are too soaked in blood to be read. But it’s better than nothing.

Then he makes the connection. _No_ , he thinks. _No no no nononono_. It can’t be. He takes the paper anyway. His hands are shaking, and though he knows the glyphs read the name of the district Hearthstone is in, he can’t quite process it. There's some women’s script that must read his name, and his parents’ names. Blood stains parts of the writing, but it must still be legible. There’s a roaring in his ears. _I swore I would protect him._ And then: _What will Mother and Father say?_ A strange sound escapes his throat, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“I’m really sorry,” the boy says. He’s Tien’s age, Kaladin realizes.

“Wasn’t he supposed to be running messages?”

“I… well, I don’t know. I just do what I’m told.” Seeing no reaction, he adds, “Tien, right? He was nice. We were in training together.”

_Why couldn't it have been you?_ Kaladin shakes his head. He can’t think about that. This boy is innocent. There's no good to come in blaming him.

 

* * *

 

There isn’t a funeral. Not a proper one. The ardents throw countless bodies onto the fire, all of them from the last few battles. Kaladin doesn’t even see Tien’s body, doesn’t know if the proper prayers are said. They must have been; he assumes they have. He knows that once the fire has burned down, they will scrape some ashes into the countless urns to be sent back to families, with reassurances that _he died for a cause, it wasn't pointless, you should be proud._

Kaladin stands, staring at the fire, barely registering the bodies, when the head surgeon lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Kaladin.”

Kaladin glances over. Dimly, he realizes he’s crying. “Sir, I— my brother, he’s—” He doesn't know what he wants to say.

“I know. It’s getting late. You should rest.” The man’s light eyes are shining in the firelight, and Kaladin wonders if he, too, has lost a brother.

 

* * *

 

Kaladin sends a letter to his parents. It's short, to the point. _I failed. Tien is dead. I'm sorry._ There's more, but he doesn't remember what he tells the scribe. _I'm not going to come home._ He leaves the tent where the scribe works, feeling oddly empty.

The others tiptoe around him, barely speaking to him. Though they had all lost patients, most of them had never lost a loved one. Certainly none of them had lost one to the battles. They’re unsure how to react; if they should treat him like glass or pretend it never happened. Honestly, Kaladin isn’t sure either.

Instead, the other surgeons ignore him, letting him work alone unless help is needed. His superiors give him a week off, to grieve; then it’s back to work. They can’t have a surgeon out of commission for too long.

 

* * *

 

Kaladin throws himself into his work. Each day is an endless cycle of _patients, patients, patients, food, patients, no time for sleep, patients._ He hears the other surgeons whispering about him.

“... too hardworking for his own good…”

“... making us look bad…”

“... lost his brother, leave him alone…”

He doesn’t care what the others say. Can’t bring himself to care. The only thing that matters is that he doesn’t fail someone else. He asks _(begs)_ the head surgeon to go into the field. To go to the front lines. He's more useful there, Kaladin thinks. He can save more lives there. (Maybe, if he had been in the field, he could have saved Tien). _Are you sure?_ his commander asks him. _Yes,_ Kaladin replies. He’s never been so sure of anything in his life. But there’s more he can’t save, out in the field. The ones that die before they ever make it to the operating table. He hadn’t realized how many died before anyone even realized they were hurt.

He becomes truly terrible at triage. He’s unable to let go, because _there’s a chance, please, let me try sir, please!_ He's reckless, charging into areas where there's still fighting going on to help a fallen soldier. The head surgeon berates him for his impulsiveness, but Kaladin barely hears the lecture.

The others think he’s gone insane. The whispers have changed from pitying to disgusted, even somewhat frightened. Kaladin can’t bring himself to care, and wonders if he really is going insane.

One of his superiors gives him a lecture. “Kaladin, this can’t keep going. You need to stop. You’re one of our best surgeons, but you aren’t any help to us like this. Keep going like this, and you’ll end up dead.”

He ignores the warning. Continues skipping meals, skipping sleep. Volunteers for the hardest positions, the most dangerous jobs. He avoids his fellow surgeons.

 

* * *

 

Brightlord Amaram apologizes. He’s holding an inspection, complimenting the team’s preparedness and efficiency. Kaladin finds, watching the man, that he doesn’t see the honorable man that had visited Hearthstone. Instead, he sees a liar.

“You said he’d be running messages.” Kaladin barely registers speaking.

“What?”

“In Hearthstone. My brother. You promised he’d be a messenger.”

Amaram’s face cleared in recognition. Then he scowled. “I can’t be expected to pay attention to things like that. I have an army to run, there’s no way I can focus on a darkeyed boy from an insignificant village. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Kaladin feels anger bubbling up inside him. He’s surprised at the intensity of the emotion. He opens his mouth to reply, but the head surgeon puts a hand on his shoulder, and Kaladin steps back.

 

* * *

 

He sees Tien’s face everywhere. There's a boy, who can't be older than 13, with a broken arm. A youth with several arrows in his back, who nearly dies of infection. A brightlord’s son, who is constantly underfoot. Kaladin doesn't know why the man brought a child to a battlefield. The boy brings Kaladin a piece of spear, once, exclaiming, _look at this shiny rock I found!_ , and Kaladin wants to cry.

He keeps going. Every patient he loses is a failure, a new chance for his heart to shatter. He remembers what his father had told him, after his first failure: you have to learn when to care. He’s always cared too much. Kaladin wishes he could stop caring, stop feeling. Stop existing. The lives he does save are the only thing that keeps him going.

It gets better. Somewhat. He learns to cope, to pretend that each loss isn’t like being stabbed by a spear. His fellow surgeons stop treating him as if he’s broken, or worthless. He finds a friend in a quartermaster’s daughter. When she leaves, Kaladin almost loses himself again. But he stays, and he never goes home.

 

* * *

 

One day, he hears the news. _Brightlord Amaram is dead._

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://ternaryflower53.tumblr.com)!


End file.
